Messy Shirts & Other Mishaps
by Pierrot Of Words
Summary: Turkey has a lot of issues with clothes... none of them perfectly negative. Rated for Turkey's overactive imagination, Greece molesting people mistakenly, and Egypt sticking his hands in people's pants.


He fastened the keffiyah firmly to his head. It wasn't as eloquent nor flamboyant as his old cranium-warmer (and indeed, such a grand hat could be BOTH eloquent and flamboyant) and it wasn't nearly as colorful nor decorative, but it had a certain charm on the Egyptian that couldn't quite be placed. Perhaps it was the veiling effect, detrimenting a clear view of his face from indirect angles. Perhaps it was the precise way the creamish color flushed against the dark of his skin. Perhaps it was that it completely hid his lush of dark hair that the Turk would so enjoy feeling underneath his un-gloved fingers. It was the same appeal as his mask, wasn't it? Hiding something that should be shared. It was just plain criminal teasing, how heavy that Egyptian's clothes were!

He wiped the silly expression figuratively, and the slight of drool literally, off his face, snapping to the present; looking himself in the mirror. Yes, he didn't quite pull it off the same. In fact, with his handsome, masculine features, he just looked like he should be a bearded beggar on the curbs of Cyprus. Phah! Only that girly, round-faced, belly-dance-hipped, henna tattooed all over his sexy girly back, with flower patterns dancing over those rounded shoulders, dark face flushed even darker, sweat trickling and sheening over his elegant, long neck, a finely-threaded gold thread arching away from his own digits, abusively tightened strung and taut around his- Yeah, only he could seriously pull off the keffiyah look.

A quick glance down the mirror revealed to him that through all his postulation, he somehow had kept the appearance of a very scruffy and old toddler, his clothes lacking all their joints, including a very obvious untucked shirt, as well as his scarf draped over his shoulders, rather paled against the green threads of his long-coat usually, but now at ease with his white undershirt. It was, after all, a little bit hotter down here closer to the equator, and that jacket was heavy even in the houses of his personal parliament.

He didn't quite have an adequate opportunity to fix it though, for just moments after he had replaced the washboard blind over the mirror he found himself accosted from behind! Which was a rare thing, and by rare he means it only happened ever on a battlefield (notably moments before he became a Republic, by England and France, and once even by jumping the bow of his ship, by a small Catholic child) and even then it more rarely surprised him. However, in the solitude of Gupta Hassan's supposedly vacant quarters, it was quite the surprise to be snuck upon. Usually the quiet would have made it a simple instinct to notice even the lightest footsteps for him, but sometimes his vanity just spoke louder than anything else.

He was about to splutter out a number of profane things, strike out perhaps, and definitely show this mystery punk a piece of his mind. But he only managed out a gasp. The kind of gasp that occurs to any human man when a hand is touching his rump, and he's pulled backwards by his waistband (somehow in a profoundly gentle-forceful way, ohoho) to be placed on someone's lap as they themselves sit on the grandiose four-poster popularly boasted over the Mediterranean region. And there was a gasp in turn from his accoster, too.

"Huh...? H-heavy..." a delicately placid voice rang, albeit with that slight strain you get from a man who is greeted with about 50 pounds more weight (it's all muscle!) than expected.

Turkey recognized that voice all too well, to his eternal lamentation. Not only that, he could simply register the feel of him. This man was of a different stature, a more masculine one to the previously described one, that was for sure. Though leaner than himself, he could still feel those sun-chiseled muscles. Yeah, in his head he could still see them, from those long and hot days he had lazed under the shade of a pantheon temple, gazing through one of its crumbling windows and watching in secret, admiring the shirtless worker excavating in length from dawn to dusk, granted the nap here and there. There was never a chance he couldn't recognize this from simple feel of him pressed to his back.

Of course, all this fantastical musing was untimely. If one thought this would become quickly embarrassing for both parties, who were slowly realizing the identity of their counterpart here, one would be right. That is, if they even had the chance. Instead, a third party had seemed to have come to partake in the supposed privy of his chambers... as if there were any such thing.

"Gupta," a lazily surprised exclamation rang out, completely pushing the Turk's vile existence out of mind for moments. Until he wanted to push him off, which was instinctually responded to with a firm planting down. It was just natural reaction to do precisely contrastably NOT what the Greek ever wanted. Even if moments later it seemed foolish or unreasonable.

Smirking anyway from the grunts and groans of being absolutely squashed under him, the Turks refocused his attention to the latecomer. "Yo! Gupta. Glad yeh could join..." he was cut off when he registered it; the Egyptian was hovering over him. Very closely. "...us. Hi?"

He probably came very close to a squeal (but he was too much an absolute piece of man for that) when hands shot down to his waist. What. WHAT. He broke out in a cold sweat. This was all too forward. It was fine... no, it was GREAT if Egypt wanted to put the moves on him, he would receive them gladly. But fuck, not when he was sitting on the Greek kid and wearing a damn stolen keffiyah. A little weirder than he ever imagined. Did he get off on this kind of situation? ...Kinky?

The hands took hold of the scruffed, now-akilter shirt he had been about to fix before being attacked. He used his fingers to push the entire thing under the Turk's belt, consequentially placing his hands into the pants entirely up to the wrist.

Okay, he was tucking his shirt in.

What in the love of asure. Okay, fuck it.

He pushed the Greek down on the bed via a palm in his face to stop his freaking struggling, then, keeping those hands firmly tucked in, toppled Egypt under him around onto the bed next to Greece. The hands were pinned between two very interesting places.

"Good Allah, Hassan. If ya wanted in my pants, ya didn't need such a lame excuse." he grinned, lifting a thumb under his mask to lift it and give a grin and a wink.

This encounter didn't last quite too long as a fist came down on the back of his head, completely discombobulating him quite efficiently. Heracles hadn't even needed to get off his back to do so. It left poor Sadiq to flop on top of someone who was not QUITE pleased to now be STUCK with a bunch of weight on top of him, not to mention his hands veritably in even worse a position than previously, but hey, there wasn't' really a more efficient way to solve the situation.

Egypt stared over at Greece, face sunk in the covers, sending those unbridled silent messages he relied on as a primary communication method.

"...yeah... I won't leave him in France again..."


End file.
